


Tomorrow and Everything After

by Lera_Myers



Series: Caged Hawke [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: (Some parts of the comfort are more successful than others), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Trauma, sibling reconciliation, sleep paralysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8973214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lera_Myers/pseuds/Lera_Myers
Summary: Escaping the Gallows was one thing. Healing from what happened inside is quite another.(Can be read as a standalone fic, though the prequel provides additional context.)





	1. Aveline

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains discussion of past sexual and physical abuse, and the process of recovering from such things. Full warnings are in the tags.

If she thought she was buried under paperwork before, it’s nothing compared to how things are now, with the de facto Viscountess dead. Kirkwall is in chaos, which means Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen has her work cut out for her. And not rising to the challenge isn’t an option.

She began just hours after the Gallows fell. When it looked as if the rest of their group might be on the run indefinitely, Aveline was already working, pulling the necessary strings to get them back into the city safely. It’s not a permanent solution, and tensions are high, but it’s a damn sight better than where they were before. A favor here, another there, and just enough acknowledgement that Hawke _did_ support the templars until things turned sour - it’s enough to keep them safe for now, even if most of the group is hanging on by their fingernails.

Her position grants a little more trust than that, thankfully. Seneschal Bran, provisional Viscount in all but title now, didn’t hesitate in assigning her a fair share of the work. It probably helps that he has a never-ending list of things to be done, she thinks.

Aveline shifts through her papers. She’s been working on rescheduling the templars’ shifts, and adjusting their hours (with help from Knight-Captain Cullen), because it was one of the many things Meredith left unfinished when she died. This was meant to be a weekly task, but it’s turned into a daily one, what with so much of the Order turning up dead lately.

Ordinarily, she’d see that as suspicious and investigate immediately. Now it feels like her duty to look the other way. She should have suspected - and done something - _years_ ago, but never saw any of it. How is it possible to have been so blind?

Two quick raps on the door interrupt her thoughts. Her head snaps up, and she barks, “Come in.”

“Aveline?” Hawke’s younger sister pushes open the door, an empty satchel clutched in one hand. “Is this yours? I found it on the floor at home.”

The guard-captain eyes what Bethany holds out and nods. It’s one of the spares - must have forgotten it last time she came for a visit. “I…yes. Thank you.”

In the time between the Chantry explosion and now, they’ve never spoken about anything really _important_. Still, how many times has Aveline wanted to bring it up with her and floundered? Talking isn’t her strong suit - things with Donnic proved that much.

But she should say something now. Shouldn’t she? Something small and comforting, that can’t possibly hurt to think about or hear. But what is there? Everything seems too cliché, too -

“Stop _looking_ at me like that,” Bethany bursts out.

Aveline pulls back, straightening to her full height. “What do you mean?”

Bethany’s face is contorted in a grimace. “ _You_ know,” she answers - and no, Aveline really doesn’t. “Like you think I’m damaged. Like all you can see is what _happened_.”

 _It’s hard not to_ , Aveline thinks but doesn’t say. Impossible, to look at Bethany and not see how numb she is, the clear signs she’s hurting. Does she notice the extra patrols passing by the Hawke estate? The way Hightown is never left unguarded, no matter what hour of the day or night? She is so much more than the injured, disgraced, _violated_ woman Anders led out of the city as the Kirkwall Rebellion started, and yet - and yet it’s difficult not to remember that, looking at her.

Swallowing past the sharp edge in her throat, Aveline leans forward over her desk.

“I had a friend who was raped,” she admits quietly. For all that Bethany’s trying to hide it, her jaw visibly tightens. “Hers was only once, nowhere near what you went through. She…didn’t last the year it happened.”

Her gaze drops to the paperwork and flicks back up again, waiting for a response. But the look of understanding and sympathy she’s expecting doesn’t come. On the contrary, Bethany’s fists clench as she shifts her weight, holding her head high. It’s an assertive stance with no real _confidence_ in it that Aveline can see - there’s only the facade of it. That, and the fury evident in a carefully controlled tone:

“Is that what you think about when you look at me?”

“I hadn’t - "

The satchel hits her desk quite unceremoniously, sending papers fluttering to the ground. “Here. _Take_ it.”

Aveline tries again to interject, but by the time she gets a word out, Bethany is already halfway out the door.

It closes firmly, and Aveline doesn’t manage to call after her.


	2. Fenris

“There’s blood under you,” Hawke mutters. “Don’t slip.”  
  
“I will not.”  
  
There are a number of things he might have expected when he promised her a favor, this not being one of them. Yet here they stand in a Lowtown alley, armed with their weapons and the list Varric’s contacts put together. Getting him to kill templars, of all things… He cannot say they are undeserving, those who are little more than slavers themselves, but nor is it entirely comfortable.  
  
“I didn’t think they’d be like this,” Hawke says, apropos of nothing.  
  
Out of habit, Fenris glances over his shoulder before he faces her. “What?”  
  
She shrugs, wiping blood off a dagger. “They’re…they look like ordinary men and women.”  
  
He can’t help wondering, somewhat sarcastically, what she expected. Because Hawke is his friend, he stifles that response. “And the slavers you and I dealt with were not?”  
  
“No. That was different.” She sheathes her weapon with a long exhale, and crouches to loot a coin purse from the body almost half-heartedly. “Those slavers looked like monsters. With templars…I can’t tell the good ones from the bad.”  
  
She thinks that _monster_ is a way of looking. If it weren’t so pointless, Fenris might feel the urge to laugh. Previous refugee in servitude or not, she has never had to think the way a slave does. She doesn’t realize Danarius and Hadriana only looked like brutes to the people who knew them that way. To everyone else, they too managed to be ordinary-looking.  
  
“You expected the Circle to be best for her,” he answers simply. “As did I.”  
  
“Does it matter what I expected?” Hawke straightens up, a humorless laugh escaping from her throat. “The Circle’s destroyed, and Bethany won’t even look at me anymore. Whatever I do turns it all into a bigger mess.”  
  
He shifts his feet to alleviate the burning of hot ground beneath them. “In what way?”  
  
She throws up her hands limply. “She’s up all hours of the night, I don’t think I’ve seen her eat since she came home, we’ve spoken maybe twice…” A sigh; she leans against the wall and he sees her force in a few deep breaths. “Yesterday I took her arm and she all but screamed.”  
  
“It takes time. The Rebellion was not long ago.”  
  
“I’m not _blaming_ her.” Hawke frowns at her shoes. “But she’s so upset with me, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from.”

Briefly, he wishes this were as simple as hitting things with his sword. It is, after all, much easier than figuring out what to say. “For wanting her where mages belong, you cannot be faulted.” The reassurance sounds flat to his own ears.  
  
“I just, I don’t know how this could happen.” A wordless growl contorts her face, and she delivers a kick to the corpse at their feet. “Fenris, this man had a daughter.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“He had a fifteen-year-old _daughter,_ and he hurt my baby sister.” She sounds almost choked. “How? How could that _happen_?”  
  
He shifts his gaze to hers. “Would it be more understandable if he were without children?”  
  
Hawke shakes her head, silent.  
  
She does not know what monsters are like the rest of the time. Together, they stare down at the body of a man, and he understands things Hawke does not - how this templar could get up in the morning, kissing his wife and joking with his daughter before going to work, where he would hurt people under his command. When they first set out, he explained it to her, yet it doesn’t seem to have sunk in.  
  
He still remembers her look of horror as he told her yes, one woman could be abused by another. Yes, Bethany could have been mistreated by someone physically smaller. No, it had nothing to do with how they treated Hawke or anyone else in public. She is only now starting to understand. In a way, it is better if she never fully does.  
  
Adjusting the daggers on her back, Hawke glances at their list. “Come on.” She sounds quiet, resigned. “We can get one more today, if we don’t leave it too late.”  
  
It’s a trek from the Lowtown alley to the Docks, waiting and watching for their target, asking a few carefully-worded questions to the right people. But in the warehouse, there isn’t the fight they expect, only another templar several hours dead. This one’s mouth has been carefully covered with a single gold coin.  
  
He watches the moment where Hawke’s understanding dawns, and she turns to him with a slight smile tugging at her lips.  
  
“I think I owe Isabela at _least_ one drink…”


	3. Isabela

“Usual?” Isabela asks when she opens her door, and Bethany nods.  
  
“Usual.” She perches on the edge of the mattress, toeing off her shoes.  
  
“Sleep well, then, sweeting. I’ll wake you up if I need to leave.”  
  
As a rule, Isabela likes to think she hasn’t changed, not really. It’s been seven years since she first led Bethany up here to her room - admittedly for a much different reason - and they agreed then it would just be one night. Really, that rule hasn’t been broken. It _was_ only one night, because Bethany comes over in the daytime now. And she really is only sleeping now, unlike the first time. It’s an arrangement with no feelings.  
  
Isabela moved first. She pressed a key into Bethany’s hand the day they returned to Kirkwall, murmuring so as not to be overheard - _“You can come by anytime, day or night. Knock first, but use this if I don’t answer. You’ll be safe, sweeting, I swear to it.”_  
  
Not long after that, she’d learned Hawke’s sister was struggling to get any rest - couldn’t sleep at home, or if the door didn’t lock, or it was dark, or she didn’t feel secure - and things had sort of fallen into place. It’s only sensible.  
  
Seven years and a Qunari relic and a pile of letters that never made it into the Circle, and…well, maybe a few things have changed, but not many. Isabela’s bed gets made now. That’s plenty of change for one year.  
  
She pays attention to the time, sort of. It’s only rarely more than a few hours before Bethany stirs, and almost always with trails of wet salt on her cheeks. Isabela pretends not to be listening for it, the heavy breathing and bubbly gasps of a woman pulling herself towards consciousness. When Bethany sits up, Isabela clears her throat.  
  
“Sweeting? Do you want some tea?” she asks, just as she always does. It’s their routine now: an offer quickly turned down before Bethany makes an excuse to leave for home.  
  
Not today. There’s a half-second pause, and then: “Please.”  
  
“Mm-mm.” Isabela nods, talking to fill the silence as she flicks through her stash. Silence is bad; it leaves people alone with their thoughts. “I have green tea, herbal, white…no, no, none of that. You need something with real flavor.” She brandishes the tea bag triumphantly. “This is perfect. It’s a Rivaini blend - don’t ask how I got it into Kirkwall.”  
  
“I’ve never doubted what you can do,” Bethany answers, her voice hardly there.  
  
Some water, a little flame to boil it. Isabela makes a show of keeping her hands busy, trying to avoid any awkwardness, but she does look over quickly to see Bethany hugging herself.  
  
“Extra blankets in that crate if you’re cold.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
A moment, then. Bethany breathes in. “I - hope you don’t think less of me for this.”  
  
“Never.” She takes the cup off the flame and hands it over. “Want me to sit with you?”  
  
Bethany nods, scoots over on the mattress. Isabela leaves a little distance between them when she takes a seat.  
  
“I told you I was married?” she asks, watching the far wall with her elbows on her knees. “For me, it was my husband.”  
  
There’s a long pause, and then, “Oh,” almost soft enough not to be heard.

“All right if I tell you this? If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t.”  
  
Bethany moves closer. “You can, um. If you want to.”  
  
“I was almost nineteen. We’d just landed in Antiva.” She adjusts her hair, still studying the wall. “He gave me a red wine, the expensive sort, and took me into his bedroom. I remember wishing I could scream.”  
  
“Even if you can,” Bethany says to her cup, “sometimes it doesn’t matter.”  
  
“You’re right.” Isabela runs her hand down the other woman's arm comfortingly, but Bethany tenses, so she lets it fall away. “Anyway,” she goes on after a few moments of waiting, “to this day, I can’t stand red wine. I’ll drink beer, mead, ale, brandy, even other sorts of wine - anything but red.”  
  
“Oh.” Bethany's lips are parted when she turns to look at her.  
  
So Isabela takes another chance, meeting her eyes quietly. “Sweetness, you know it wasn’t your fault, right?”  
  
“I never thought it was,” Bethany answers, but she’s gone still.  
  
Isabela nods. “Can I hold you?”  
  
The cup is set down carefully, and then Bethany’s arms are around her, clinging on for dear life. Shit, should have seen how badly she needed it sooner. Isabela hugs her, feeling her shake.  
  
“All I mean,” she murmurs, “is if there’s anything you want to tell me, I’ll listen.” She loops her arms around Bethany’s shoulders, and the younger woman leans into her. _So, shoulders yes, arms no. Safe enough._  
  
“I. Well.” Bethany pulls in a breath, eyes locked on the sheets. “Can I tell you one thing?”  
  
“I told you you could, sweeting,” Isabela answers, not unkindly.  
  
“The red wine.” She runs her fingers over the lumpy sheets. “Do you, um, know how to stop a mage from casting?”  
  
“I can’t say I do.” _Apart from stabbing them, anyway._  
  
“You…tie their wrists.” A hitching breath in; Bethany squirms and looks down. “Or hold their hands, s-so tightly they can’t slip out.”  
  
Ah, shit.  
  
Isabela shakes her head slowly. “There’s a lot of ways to misuse that,” she says.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Silence, and Bethany moves away, then reaches for her cup. “That’s all I wanted to tell you,” she informs the drink.  
  
“Here.” Isabela holds up another blanket, and Bethany lets it be wrapped around her shoulders. “You’re freezing. Should I warm the tea up?”  
  
“I’ve got it.” Her lips move with a murmured spell that starts it steaming again. “Bela?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
But the question Bethany wants to ask drops away, and so Isabela just stays close.


	4. Marian

For a few seconds after she wakes up, Marian can only squint blearily into the darkness. Another clatter sounds from the kitchen, and she feels around with her toes, trying to see whether the dog is still snoozing at the foot of her bed. He snuffles and curls up tighter at her light poke, so Marian gets into her house shoes and moves towards the kitchen.  
  
She’s louder than she’d normally be, making sure Bethany can hear her coming. If things are usually uncomfortable between them these days, startling her little sister makes it twice as bad. Marian shuffles her feet along the floor. In the kitchen, conjured wisps of light illuminate Bethany nibbling at a bowl of porridge.  
  
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she says, and digs through the pantry for a chunk of crusty bread. “Sorry.”  
  
Living in the lap of luxury, and she eats bread and porridge. Marian wonders briefly whether Circle life removed her sister’s taste buds entirely. At least she’s eating to begin with; when even was the last time they had a meal together?  
  
“It’s your house, too,” Marian says, to herself as much as to Bethany. She’s not her sister’s keeper. “You don’t have to apologize for being hungry, Bethy.”  
  
Bethany shuts the cabinet a little too hard. “I said I was sorry for waking you, Sister. I’m not apologizing for eating.”  
  
“Nobody was asking you to - “ Marian stops, forcing herself to rein in her tone. Getting into an argument now won’t help anything. More gently she continues, “If you want something cooked, just ask. I pay someone to do this, you know.”  
  
“I know how to cook.” Keeping her eyes on the doorway, Bethany sinks her teeth into the bread. “Mother taught me. We cooked every night while you and Carver were off fighting with the army.”  
  
The distance between them feels like it’s tripled since she first walked in. Why all this jumpiness? It’s like trying to calm a scared rabbit. Bethany doesn’t take her eyes off Marian - and the doorway she’s standing in - the whole time she crams down porridge and bread, eating too fast. Marian watches in silence for a moment, then jerks her head towards the stairs.  
  
“Come on. Come upstairs and sleep. It’s pretty late.”  
  
“You don’t have to mother me.” Bethany snaps the towel on the rack as she wipes her hands clean. “I’m getting plenty of sleep.”  
  
Marian arches a brow, frowning. “But you spent all day at the Hanged Man.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She makes no sense. Marian shakes her head, letting this one go, and softens her tone. “Bethy,” she says, quiet and soothing. “Come on, get some rest. I can _see_ the circles under your eyes.”

Bethany sets her dishes on the counter. “I told you. I’m getting enough sleep.”  
  
Her voice has sharpened, the fear more obvious. Marian’s brow creases, and her teeth worry at the inside of her cheek. Twenty years ago, she could have pulled Bethany into her arms, repeating over and over how they were safe and everything was all right, and soon enough they would both believe it. When that no longer works, when it’s no longer _true,_ what’s left?  
  
“You don’t have to be afraid, you know,” Marian says, keeping the same low, comforting tone. “The templars are dead - all of them. And the locks on our door are the best money can buy. Tell me if there's anything else that would help. You _know_ I’ll keep you safe.”  
  
Bethany’s breathing has quickened. “Marian,” she says, “stop it. Stop it now.”  
  
Why is this going so wrong? Marian grimaces, molding her expression into something firm yet sympathetic. “Sister. Why don’t you trust me?”  
  
Before two heartbeats have passed, Bethany is across the room, hands up and palms slicked with ice where her magic bubbles over.  
  
_Shit._  
  
“Bethy - “  
  
“I’m going out.”  
  
Marian reaches out, trying to intercept her little sister as she stalks over to the door. But Bethany is a woman on a mission, batting away those well-meaning hands as if they’re flies buzzing around.  
  
“Bethy.” She reaches out again, and is pushed aside once more. “Bethy, just take some deep breaths.” Reach, swat. Marian can’t keep her pitch from rising. “I don’t want you wandering the streets alone at this hour!”  
  
Bethany all but snarls. “There’s nothing anyone can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”  
  
“At least take your staff, Sister - “  
  
“I said I’m going out!”  
  
It takes one beat for Bethany to wrestle the door open, and half of one for her to slam it in Marian’s face.  
  
She is back in the morning as if nothing ever happened, and Marian says nothing to remind her.


	5. Varric

Some footsteps are easy to pick out of a noisy crowd. Of course, Varric muses, it helps when they belong to a regular visitor. Even before he turns to see Bethany’s face, he’s waving her in, putting away his letters and pulling out the manuscript for _The Tale of the Champion._  
  
She nods a greeting. “Good morning.”  
  
“Good to see you,” he replies, waving a hand at a chair to indicate she should sit down. She does, scooting it up to his desk in the way that’s become routine for them. It makes her smile in anticipation every time. Close to eight years after he first met her, Bethany Hawke is still Sunshine, just on a cloudier day. Not that he’d say that to her, of course.  
  
A few days after the Gallows fell, Varric was one of the first to stop by the Hawke estate, and _the_ first who hadn’t been turned away. He’d greeted the dog, waved off Orana’s concern at telling him Hawke wasn’t home just then, and talked to Bethany just like old times. She spoke of the crops growing outside, he spoke of the book he’d started writing, they’d worked to fix up her old staff Hawke had kept in storage all these years (it had been their father’s, Bethany admitted, passed down to her just before he died). There was nothing about what she’d been through, or what they’d seen of the aftermath, or anything she’d do now she was back in the city proper. She’s been a regular visitor to the Hanged Man ever since, coming at least twice a week, and rarely does she have even a sip of ale.  
  
No, she doesn’t come to the bar to drink - she comes to help work on the book. They haven’t gotten very far yet, mainly lining up notes on how things were before the two of them met, hoping to start it off right. Any author knows the opening hook is the most important part.  
  
Bethany tugs the pages closer, skimming what they went over last time. “Am I going to be able to read this, once you write it up properly? Before it’s published?”  
  
Varric grins. “You think I’d keep it from you?”  
  
“I just meant to look it over. I was hoping.” She smiles shyly.  
  
“Of course.” He nods. “And, Sunshine? If I write anything about you that you don’t like, say the word. I already promised Rivaini I’d leave out a few of the parts with her in them.”  
  
Even as her eyes brighten, her smile flickers. “You should ask my sister as well.”  
  
Before the silence can become uncomfortable, he dips a quill in ink and pulls his notes from last time closer.  
  
“I was thinking about what to cover next,” Varric says. “We’re up to you taking ship in Gwaren. Anything interesting happen on the trip over, or should we skip straight to when you arrived in Kirkwall?”  
  
“The second choice. If that’s all right.” The wrinkles fade from her brow.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“It was the four of us. Aveline, Marian and I, and Mother.” She clears her throat, speaking slowly so he has time to jot down notes. “When we landed, Kirkwall was full of refugees just like us.”  
  
They stick to comfortable territory for today, just as they have before. The days between when she arrived in Kirkwall and when he met her, plus some of the odd jobs after that. It’s like filling in an outline as they go over details, smoothing out errors in one person’s memory or the other’s.  
  
Afternoon turns to evening as Varric fills pages with her words, and they start sketching out a couple of scenes. As the sun sets, she grows gradually quieter, eventually falling silent with her fingers skipping over the letters as if she could read by touch alone.  
  
“Sunshine?”  
  
“Just thinking.” She settles her hands in her lap. “You know, I didn’t learn to read much past the Chant of Light until I left home.”  
  
Varric shrugs. “You were keeping a low profile. Most commoners don’t know at all.” It’s not what he’d have expected of her, if he’s being honest. Not that he ever thought much about it.  
  
A fond smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “My parents taught me some of it. Mother grew up noble, and Father in the Circle. So both of them knew, and thought it was important.”  
  
“Did you?” he asks, already guessing at the answer.

“Not especially.” She studies the page. “Hardly anyone in our village could read, so we never wrote things down. Even if I got a letter, all I had to do was have Carver or Marian read it to me.”  
  
He nods, and watches her face for a moment before he takes a gamble. “You were close with them, weren’t you.” It’s more statement than question; he knows how she was with Hawke, after all.  
  
“Varric!” she snaps.  
  
So he backs off, quick and easy. “Here, Sunshine, let me show you the second draft of this other story I’m working on. Put it aside when I started working on the _Tale._ ” Tucking their papers away, he reaches for another set. “I need some input on one of these scenes, and you seem like someone who’d enjoy this.”  
  
She cranes her neck, trying to see. “What kind of story is it?”  
  
“It’s fiction. Romance.” It’s hard to miss the grin tugging at Bethany’s lips. Just to get her to stop hiding it, he adds, “Come on, don’t laugh.”  
  
She giggles almost in response, and shakes her head. “Sorry, I - it’s not what I pictured coming from you.”  
  
“I’ve got plenty of surprises.” He waves the papers at her. “Are you in?”  
  
She gets halfway through reaching for them before dropping her hand, a glint in her eyes. “If you read to me with that storyteller voice, I’ll be twice as enthusiastic.”  
  
Varric doesn’t skip a beat. “You want to take the blanket over yourself, get comfortable? It’s cold up here.”  
  
She tugs the afghan over her lap, and they get through the first two chapters that way. As it turns out, Bethany’s a good listener, with gasps and smiles and murmurs in all the right places to offer helpful feedback. In mid-evening, the best compliment comes: her shy request to take the manuscript home just for tonight and read ahead a little if she can’t sleep.  
  
He lets her go home with it tucked safely under one arm. The next day she arrives later than usual, a little more droopy-eyed, and hands it back. He picks the papers up with a smile.  
  
“So…start reading from chapter three, then?”  
  
“I’m up to chapter _eight,_ actually,” she answers, and Varric’s face breaks into a wide grin.


	6. Anders

If a place could simultaneously be the safest and unsafest locations for an apostate, Anders’s clinic fits the bill. It’s a small miracle he could keep the place, but between their band of misfits, it’s possible. Bethany sends a small prayer of thanks to the Maker every time she comes in. Besides Isabela’s at the Hanged Man, she’s never felt this safe anywhere else.  
  
At first they both called the visits necessary, to make sure she was still healing well. They’ve since dropped the preamble. Now it’s for a discussion and food - usually a broth, to warm her from the inside out. Most days it’s an exercise in forcing the stuff down, but it’s helping her slowly fill out again. As the weather has begun to turn cold, he’s padded the meal with bread and apple, easier to get down every time.  
  
“How have you been managing?” he asks, just as he always does.  
  
She shrugs off the question. “I’m alive.”  
  
He sits on the cot next to her. “And the dreams?”  
  
“Still there. I still can’t sleep at home.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
She shrugs it off again to avoid answering. One day she’ll be able to put the reason into words, but that isn’t today. All the potential explanations - Marian, too much open space, too many windows - don’t fit, and it’s hard to say what does.  
  
“Anything physical I should check on?” Anders asks, nodding to her person.  
  
She shakes her head. “No. I just…needed to get out of the house.”  
  
“Well.” He tosses an arm back. “Maker knows I could use a break from this work. Do you mind if we talk? I’ve got something you can help with, actually.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“The clinic is low on supplies again.” Anders gestures vaguely to the shelves. “I’m never in Hightown anymore to buy potion ingredients, and I really can’t go poking around Sundermount just for herbs. Any chance you’d be able to fetch some for me if you have time? Or buy them, if I give you the coin? I’d pay you.”  
  
She nods. “Of course. Don’t worry about the payment.”  
  
“The trouble is, I have to be incredibly picky. You can’t put just anything in these potions.” He shifts to get comfortable, and her head winds up resting against his arm, her body most of the way reclined. “I know you’ve done this before, but just so you remember. We’ll need blood lotus - it’s better from around the larger bodies of water. And elfroot! Elfroot, definitely. We never have enough of that. Make sure you look at it closely, or you can’t tell when it’s gone bad. If the leaves are even the slightest bit yellow…”  
  
He goes on for a while like that, dragging out even the most basic information. Bethany honestly is trying to listen, but she’s really very comfortable. It feels like no time has passed before her whole body has gone warm and heavy, and she has to yank herself away from the edge of sleep to force her eyes open. “Anders,” she interrupts, “sorry. I don’t want to be rude. It’s just that I’ve been up too long, and if I stay like this…”  
  
“I know.” He chuckles, rubbing her shoulder. “That was sort of the idea.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Don’t worry. I know you’re not that interested in potion ingredients.” A snort. “Even I’m not, actually. I was hoping you’d fall asleep before I ran out of things to say.”  
  
“I - I’d like it if you kept talking, actually.” She manages a shy smile. “It can be about something else. It…helps me relax.”  
  
“Hmm.” He seems to consider that for a moment. “Has anyone told you the story of how Aveline got together with her second husband?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh, you’re in for a treat.”  
  
She falls asleep somewhere after the part about the copper marigolds with a little smile on her face.

* * *

Invisible hands have already bound her to the mattress when the door opens. The instant she wakes, she knows she’s going to die.  
  
A thudding noise, shaking her down to her stomach. Someone moves in the corner - mage, templar, neither? Obviously a templar, this is her _bedroom_ after all, have some sense. Eyes try to focus, mind tries to snap them shut. Templar with blond hair and coat and _no no no, don’t think about who,_ have to be able to walk past him in the halls and not _know._ Breathe. Pray. It’s better, _please. ‘In the long hours of the night when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light rema - '_

Man in the corner turns around. He’s talking. Don’t listen. His mouth moves, disconnected, and she needs to shoutmovedoanything can’t. Pressure, sharp, immobilizing every inch.  
  
No. No. Quiet. Think of the places the templar is not. He’s in here and that means he’s not anywhere else, not in First Enchanter Orsino’s quarters or the room down the hall with the girl who was Harrowed just last week or, Maker forbid, the _apprentice_ wing. If they get what they want from her they won’t have to go looking for it from anyone else. She’ll give them what they want, just please let them take it and _go._ She’s not breathing but she has to breathe and - _'I_ _n the long hours of the night when hope has - '_  Breathe. Breathebreathebreathe.  
  
He moves to her side and he’s _right there_ and she has to scream but can’t scream can’t bite her tongue and it hurtshurtshurts she’s going to die and - _'I_ _n the long hours - '_  and _hands,_ stretching to pin her shoulder and then  
  
Shaking her, hard. A voice. “Bethany, wake up.”  
  
**_Nonono!_**  
  
It’s sharp, choking, burning, wants to kill her. She’s under and the hands are shaking harder, pulling, dragging her from that place - she’s between the Fade and reality and can feel _stop it stop it hurts please don’t!_ The face, the eyes above her, they’re still -  
  
“It’s Anders. We’re in my clinic. I need you to wake up.”  
  
Anders is - he’s here. She has to stay close. It’s her only chance. Lungs burn, and she thinks, she’s screaming, she’s oxygen-starved, fingers wet where they touch her eyes.  
  
“I’m here.” An arm thumps down around her shoulders as she wriggles into the hold. “I have you. We’re in my clinic, this isn’t the Gallows. You’re not there.”  
  
“No - “ Sound is good, means she’s breathing, keep making sound. “No - please - “  
  
“I have you. You’re safe.” Fingers wind into her hair. “Repeat it to me. Where are you?”  
  
Chest constricts, stomach knots. Hands, so many hands, make it _stop._ Her head thumps back against a warm body. “Messere, I can’t…”  
  
“I’m not ‘messere.’ I’m Anders. Bethany, tell me where we are.”  
  
“Not - it’s not the - " There’s a drop-tug in her stomach and too much saliva. She bats at the arms around her, frantic. “Let me go _let me go_ \- “  
  
Pressing her forward and the screaming in her head is louder and it’s everywhere, swelling, choking, before she throws up into black abyss. The world melts into sour and too hot; for a moment she feels like a dwarf, worrying she’ll fall up into the sky -  
  
But there’s a point of contact, and that means somewhere to hold on. The coat, feathers. She hears her own harsh breathing, then words, and realizes she’s still begging weakly between retches. “No…no…”  
  
“There, now,” Anders murmurs. “It’s all right.”  
  
At last she slumps back against the mattress, unpleasant shudders wracking her body. His hand has remained on her back the whole time, not restraining, just there. She needs it there.  
  
Suddenly the pressure lifts, and she flails. “Don’t - don’t - “  
  
“I’m here.” She hears liquid pouring into a cup, and then that cup presses against her hands. “Take this and rinse your mouth. You’ll feel better.” When she grips it, he keeps talking. “Let me get your shoes off. Lift up? Right. I’m going to - “  
  
Her eyes fly open, grabbing a blurry picture before they slam shut again. “Could you stop talking?”  
  
When the words disappear, it gives her space to breathe. She takes pulls of water slowly, and hears him moving, cleaning up. The reality of the thing settles in numbly, then rattles her.  
  
Maker, what is she doing? He’s on his knees cleaning her vomit off the floor, and she just gave him an order. Ordering around a mage makes her no better than - No, she won’t finish that thought.  
  
“Anders?” she whispers.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“I’m so sorry.”  
  
The glue holding her eyelids shut has loosened, and she can see him shake his head, waving off the apology. “Don’t be. My fault, completely.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Giving you such a rich soup before bed?” He stands up to rinse his hands, the floor still wet but clean now. “Maker, that was stupid of me.”  
  
She grips the edge of the mattress, feeling ridiculous. “I didn’t mean the mess.”  
  
“Bethany, there’s nothing wrong here.”  
  
If only.

With his back still turned to her, she feels safer chancing a question. “Do you remember…that trip to the Deep Roads, three years ago? Where we found out about my father?”  
  
“Of course.” Anders dries his hands, looking over his shoulder at her.  
  
“You were angry with me then, for going to the Circle.” Her mouth forces itself into a wobbly half-smile, and she can’t imagine why. “Are you angry now?”  
  
When he doesn’t immediately blurt out a _no,_ something curls tight inside her. After the space of a few heartbeats, he answers. “Justice is angry. But not with you.”  
  
“With the Knight-Commander, you mean?”  
  
He grits his teeth, and his face screws up in that way that means he’s fighting every impulse to have Justice take over. The thing inside her quivers.  
  
“He’s angry there was a woman hurting in the Gallows, and no one helped her.”  
  
Bethany thinks of the other mages who screamed at night, the apprentices who huddled in fear. For a moment, she understands the Chantry explosion completely, even if she might never forgive it.  
  
“Are you…” She sounds about to cry, and she hates it. “Going to turn into him again?”  
  
“I’m doing my damndest not to.”  
  
“That’s not a good answer.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Even as she watches him pace, desperate to burn off energy, her mind can’t keep her mouth shut. “The doors,” it makes her say, disconnected from the rest of her.  
  
He stops pacing. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Earlier - you asked why I can’t sleep at home.” She struggles to sit up without wavering. “It’s because of the doors.”  
  
“What about them?” She sees his nails dig into his palms, matching her own.  
  
“The templars. They.” A sharp breath gulped through her mouth. “In the Gallows. They would open - the mages’ doors, at night. And…go inside.”  
  
“Maker, Bethany.” His eyes shut, a fist clenching and unclenching.  
  
“I - I can hear them from across the house.” Everything in her screams to stop talking, but at the same time it all screams to keep going, a dam broken down with words. “Sometimes they’re real, but even if they aren’t…I can’t sleep with them like that.”  
  
“Stop.” This time it’s his hands on her shoulders, and she waits as he pulls in air like a drowning man.  
  
Their bodies take over the conversation. He has to sit down, and she lets him. She has to be held, and he lets her.  
  
Anders is the one to break the silence. “I’m so sorry. It’s not about not wanting to listen. I want to, but I can’t.”  
  
“I know,” she whispers. The feathers on his coat are pressing into her cheek.  
  
“I can’t let him hurt you. I can’t - but I promise you. We’ll find a way to help. I promise.”  
  
Somehow even here, with his arms around her, she feels like the only person in the room.  
  
“Beth?”  
  
“I understand,” she says, and they both pretend to believe she's telling the truth.


	7. Varric (Reprise)

Having Bethany there while he works on the  _Tale_ , Varric muses, is different from writing it alongside any of the rest of the group. She’s been as much audience as she has editor for huge chunks of the story’s middle - hearing about things that happened in the city years ago and hardly being familiar with them.  
  
(“Not very much news gets into the Gallows,” she’d admitted bitterly once, glaring down at the pages.  
  
“ _Got_  into,” Varric reminded her then, meeting her eyes. “Past tense.” It had unwound the tiniest bit of anxiety in her face, and she’d nodded and said he was right, which felt like a victory for more than one reason.)  
  
So many ways to weave a tale, especially when the writer keeps his embellishments to a minimum. He’s doing his best to make most of it nonfiction, much as his imagination wants to butt in. People should know what happened in Kirkwall, spare a handful of the details - the ones belonging to stories that aren’t his to share, and never will be.  
  
Here and there, the lines are blurry, and all that can be done is watching his friends for cues. Merrill wanted some of the interactions she had with her Keeper left out, and Fenris asked that the conversation with his sister be paraphrased considerably, both of them taking steps towards reshaping their own pasts and mental pictures as well as the readers’. From Varric’s own experiences, he knows that well enough.  
  
And then there’s Bethany. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting and hoping for her to reject a scene or two, and it’s not like there’s no opportunity. That hostage situation, the trip to find out about her father, the less flattering details of her family life - all things he wasn’t sure whether to tell the world, until posing the question to her resulted in a firm nod and request for him to write it down. Let no one say the Hawke sisters are an indecisive duo. He’ll run it by Marian later, too, but he already knows her answer will be the same.  
  
It’s not until they’re almost done with the book’s first draft that Bethany speaks up, with Marian-in-the-story running for the Gallows just before the Chantry explosion.  
  
“I want to change this part. If it’s all right.”  
  
He grabs another piece of paper to take notes on. “Of course.”  
  
“I just - I don’t want it in  _words_  on a paper.”  
  
Varric nods, tipping his head towards her. “To tell you the truth, if you hadn’t asked, I was going to. There are some things people don’t need to read about.”  
  
“Oh.” She relaxes. “All right.”  
  
He makes a quick little scribble on a corner of the paper, checking that the quill works. “So, help me brainstorm how it should have been?”  
  
Her brow furrows. “Should have been?” she repeats.  
  
“Well, of course. Pretend you can make up how it happened. Hawke runs into the courtyard, sees Orsino and Meredith standing there. Where are you?”  
  
When she looks at him, her expression is indescribable, and something in his mind clicks. It’s enough encouragement to push, just a little.  
  
“You want me to go back further, say you never joined the Circle?” He spreads his arms encouragingly. “Claim you lived a life of luxury with your sister, or something else entirely? I’ll weave you any story you want, Sunshine. We could tell them you joined the Grey Wardens if that’s what you want. Just say the word.”  
  
A laugh bursts from her, and she shakes her head. “A Warden? Me? I would have been miserable.” Her gaze goes back to the paper. “I’m, um. First Enchanter Orsino wanted me in the courtyard with him. Backing him up.”  
  
He meets her eyes. “Is that where you’d have wanted to be?”  
  
Bethany nods. “Yes. Like nothing ever happened.”  
  
“So Hawke shows up in the courtyard, shouts at the two lovebirds to stop arguing.” He jots it down. “Tell me more. Are you standing by? Participating? Anything you want.”  
  
There’s a pause; she sucks on her teeth. “I’d be happy to see Marian. If none of this had happened.”  
  
He smiles. “Good, so what do you do?”  
  
“Not much, probably.” She hugs herself. “She…used to want me in the Circle, you know. Before everything. So I might be upset with her. And…”  
  
The silence that follows gets slightly too long, and he breaks in, hopefully before she can become too lost in her own head. “Sunshine?”  
  
“No.” She shakes her head, decisive. “No, I loved her. I still do. So when she runs up…I look to her and shout, ‘You came!’ Because I know - I would have known she’d be there for me. Always.”  
  
Varric writes that down, but he keeps his eyes on her face. “Would you have fought with them, when she sided with the mages? I could write you into the background, if you want. Keep things vague.”  
  
She nods. “The fight scene is yours, Varric. Anything. Make it sound like I was fine in the Circle.” She takes in a breath. “Make it sound like…I did the right things.”  
  
“You already have.”  
  
Together, they draft the chapter. She helps him write it and she helps him rewrite it and they even get to brainstorming a satisfying epilogue chapter afterwards. It’s not until her voice fades away that he looks over and sees tears running down her face, one hand pressed to her mouth.  
  
“Hey, Sunshine. Hey.” Varric puts down his quill. “What’s the matter?”  
  
She lowers her hand, still staring at the papers. “I want it to have been like this,” she bursts out. “It should have been, and it wasn’t, and…sometimes, it’s like it will never go away.”  
  
He doesn’t pray much, never has, but now he sends up a silent request for the right words. Nudging his papers aside, he turns around in his chair.  
  
“You told me about your brother, a while ago.”  
  
She wipes her eyes, processing the change of subject, and nods. “Yes. My twin.”  
  
He leans forward to meet her gaze. “I want to make some guesses, just based off what happened with me and Bartrand. And you can stop me if I’m wrong anywhere. All right?”  
  
Another nod. “All right.”  
  
It lets him relax a little, because this is almost like telling a story in and of itself - and that’s something he can do, no matter the circumstances. “So, I’m guessing, when you first lost him you thought about him pretty much every waking hour.”  
  
“And some sleeping hours,” Bethany puts in.  
  
“Right.” He waves it off. “Human, mage - access to the Fade and everything. So you had it even more than I did. Point is, you couldn’t  _stop_  thinking about him. And then.” He drops his voice, just enough to encourage her to move closer. “One day, you woke up, and he wasn’t the first thing on your mind, he was the second.”  
  
She’s got her hands in the fabric of her robes, twisting the material slowly.  
  
“Some days you thought about him more than others. Some days less. Still hurts, probably always will, but not the way it did in the beginning anymore.”  
  
“That’s it.” She nods, slowly at first, then faster. “That’s it exactly.”  
  
“I don’t pretend to know what you’ve been through. But the way I figure, that’s the pattern these things follow.”  
  
Bethany’s gaze falls to the papers again. “Maker’s breath,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry all of you were ever dragged into this.”  
  
“We help each other out,” he reminds her gently. “We’re friends.”  
  
“But I never wanted this. It makes everyone uncomfortable.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow. “And everything you heard about my brother wasn't like that? What about when we fought Danarius, or everything with Daisy’s clan?”  
  
The lines in her face tighten. “That was different.”  
  
“How?” Varric presses.  
  
“It just  _is_!” She blows a lock of hair out of her eyes with more force than necessary. “Do you know my own sister won’t even speak to me normally anymore? She helped you, and Isabela, and Merrill, and Fenris, and all those people she hardly knew - she was there for  _everyone_  except me. I never even got a letter!”  
  
I saw her cry and shout and swear, he wants to say. I saw her spend nights pacing, rambling, trying to figure out what to do and whether she was right to leave you there.  
  
But he keeps his mouth closed, eyeing the edges of the paper as they start to smolder under her fingers. “You’re angry with Hawke,” he says. “Too many things left unsaid.”  
  
“Yes,” she says, blinking back tears. “Yes.”  
  
He lays his hand on the table, palm up. After a moment, she rests her fingertips on it cautiously, and both of them remain still.  
  
“Sunshine,” he says, “can we write one more story? We’ll leave it out of the book.”  
  
“I don’t know.” Her gaze is locked on their hands. “What is it?”  
  
“The one where you talk to your sister.”


	8. Marian (Reprise)

Marian’s had her things halfway packed for ages now, just the essentials; enough that if someone stormed the Hawke Estate in the middle of the night, all she’d have to do would be grab one bag and run. That day will come sooner than she’s comfortable with. Might as well be ready.

That’s how she misses Bethany making preparations, too. She doesn’t quite realize it when it happens, her little sister’s things strewn across the living room one day and neatly packed the next. It only dawns on her midway through the conversation when Bethany announces she’s leaving - “I’ve been packed for a week, you know,” she says, pointing to where her things are waiting - and Marian’s protests freeze in her throat.

She lived here alone for years, not counting Bodahn and Sandal, but that was different, nowhere near voluntary. And still, it’s difficult imagining things going back to the way they were. Maybe it’s just hard to imagine Bethany leaving this city before she does - and on a ship, no less, following a certain pirate friend who stopped by earlier with words of warning. _(“Your sister has news for you later, Hawke. If you make her feel worse, Maker help you, I will cut off your tits.”)_

With that caution in mind, Marian breaks the uncomfortable silence. “I’m surprised,” she says carefully. “I thought you didn’t want to run away anymore.”

Bethany shakes her head, leaning on the windowsill, though her eyes remain on her sister. She hasn’t sat down since she came into the room. “It’s not running. Some things are worth leaving behind.”

They are. Marian knows that all too well. It was years before she stopped taking the long way around town to avoid walking by the place their mother died, and how many times has she heard Anders declare he’ll never set foot in the Deep Roads again? But this is different. This is her _sister,_  and the idea of having her just vanish -

“Where will you go?”

Bethany shrugs. “We’ll find somewhere.” She casts her eyes around the room, and Marian is struck, not for the first time, by how much the Gallows aged her. Putting it that way sounds ridiculous, but seeing it in someone she’s always thought of as so young and in need of protection…that’s another story.

 _Only - not in need of protection anymore._  Her insides squirm uncomfortably. _Is she?_

“Bethy,” she says gently, “I don’t want you to leave with us on these terms.”

There’s a pause, just half a moment. Bethany tugs a folded piece of paper out of her pocket.

“I wrote you a letter,” she says.

“A letter,” Marian repeats, not moving from her chair.

“Varric suggested it.” Bethany extends her arm, and this time Marian takes the sheet. “I thought it might be easier - talking about it this way. I want you to know what happened, but I can’t say it.”

With conscious effort, Marian sets the letter on her desk. “You don’t owe me an explanation,” she says softly, wishing she were noble enough to only protest for Bethany’s sake. On the contrary, there’s a growing part of her (and a sick feeling in her stomach) that can’t stand the idea of ever reading those words. “If you’re telling me, I want it to be because that’s important to _you.”_

“It is. Can’t you see?”

She can. And she knows very well that not reading the letter won’t mean the things in it never happened - which means ignoring it isn’t an option, no matter her own feelings.

Bethany frowns. “You’ll write back,” she says. It isn’t a question.

“Of course,” Marian answers automatically. “I just - why go now? You’ve barely been out of the Circle a year. Are you really sure you can…?”

Holding her sister’s gaze, Bethany shakes her head. “No. But this is something I know I have to do.”

“That’s how it always is.” Marian’s lips twitch. “You’re the brave one. I just sit here and look pretty.”

“Sister!”

That drags real smiles out of them both. And then - Marian can’t help herself - her eyes flick over towards the letter again. Bethany follows her gaze.

“Promise you won’t read it until I’m gone.”

“I promise.” Marian exhales heavily. “And…will you promise me I’ll see you again, once you find what you need?”

“Absolutely.”

Bethany steps forward to hug her tightly, and Marian rises from her chair. She hugs back just as firmly, breathing in deeply, and trying to say everything she can’t put in words.

I’ll wait for you, she wants to say. Whenever you’re back, whenever you’re ready to have me in your life again, I’ll be waiting here for you.

She wants to say: Carver would be so proud, if he were here.

Instead, she lets her sister go, and trusts.

* * *

Marian Hawke has seen love, and bravery, and resilience. Somehow, she’s still blindsided by it from time to time.

In the weeks to come, she’ll read Bethany’s letter dozens of times, and often only in part. It’s too much to take in in full. She’ll draft a response and crumple up the paper just as many times, until she can find the right words to send to her sister on a ship.

They’ll be apart for over a year, and never again meet inside Kirkwall. By the time Bethany writes that she’s ready to return, Marian will have fled the city, and enclose a new address in her response. More importantly, by that time, they’ll have the right words - or at least better ones. Being apart will make it possible for them to be closer. In a year’s time, Bethany will have tanned, learned to sail, and developed a habit of borrowing Isabela’s favorite hat.

Years from now, when the Hawke sisters spend time together again, there will be uncomfortable truths to face. The screaming nightmares that still strike every now and then, the panic that can paralyze a woman still relearning how to breathe, the scars that never completely stop existing. Some things never go away, but they get better to a point that one can almost forget what used to be.

But all of that is the future. For now, the Champion of Kirkwall watches out her window as Bethany strides outside with her head high, turning to where Isabela’s waiting patiently. A few words are exchanged before the two women head for the docks - words Marian can’t hear, and doesn’t need to. She watches until they turn out of sight, then breathes in deeply and looks back at her desk.

All they can do now is their best, she thinks to herself. They’ll try their best, and if that isn’t good enough…well, it will simply have to do.


End file.
